


Mark My Footsteps (Tread Thou In Them Boldly)

by Sir_Bedevere



Series: Blessed Nights [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-18 22:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13109934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: Javert kept the fire built up high, burning against the dwindling light and the frigid cold. He shivered, despite the heat and the warmth of his coat, which he had not removed all day, but continued to scribble through his paperwork as day faded and night came to his window. It was only two days until Christmas and, as he had worked on the day the year previously, he had promised Jean that he would be at home this year. If he could only catch up on this pile of work, he might come back to a just manageable load after his days off.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven/gifts).



> This little story fits in between All The Way Home (I'll Be Warm) and Blessed Nights, but you don't need to have read those to enjoy this one!
> 
> Beta'd by my darling, Vana

“Commissioner? Monsieur Fauchelevent is here to see you.”

Javert looked up from his paperwork to see François hovering in the doorway to his office. The man was smiling, as he often did when Jean came to visit. The two of them got on far too well for Javert to ever be completely sure that they had not talked at length about him when he wasn’t listening. 

“Tell him I’ll be there momentarily, sergeant.”

Javert finished reading the last page of the document and added his signature to the bottom before heading out to see Jean. 

There was a chill in the air as he stepped out of his office; where François kept the fire built up in Javert’s office grate, the station had not been afforded the same luxury. It was too cold a December for the men to be deprived of something as basic as a fire, and Javert would not stand for it. He wondered why he had not noticed it earlier in the day, but then he had been feeling particularly tired when he arrived that morning. That would account for it, perhaps.

“Dedan, fill the log box and keep the fire burning in here,” he said, pinning the young officer with his gaze, “How will any of you work with frozen fingers?”

“Yes, commissioner,” Dedan jumped to start the fire, and Javert turned to find Jean perched on the edge of François’ desk, speaking in a low voice. He said something that made François laugh, his own low chuckle warm as the fire that Dedan was stoking. 

“Good afternoon, Jean,” Javert said, “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?”

“I was on the way to see Cosette, as usual, and thought I would bring you some of Toussaint’s fresh bread and jam. There is enough to share.”

“That’s good of you,” Javert nodded, aware that there were a distinct lack of eyes on the pair of them. They were so used to Jean dropping in that it was not unusual to them anymore, and he never completely knew how he felt about that. He was grateful, of course, that no one had much interest in Jean, for it meant that he was safe and likely to remain so. Javert was also aware, however, that it meant he himself was predictable, and it did not do to always be so easy to read. 

The only person who ever paid Jean attention anymore was, ironically, the one that Javert would expect to be uninterested. But François was always vigilant, always watching the pair of them with his inquisitive green eyes, and Javert often wondered how much the man had managed to deduce over the years of being his right hand. 

“Anyway, Cosette is expecting me,” Jean got to his feet and pressed Javert’s hand, “Shall I tell Toussaint that you will be home for dinner?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Jean wrapped his scarf around his neck, fastened his coat and stepped out of the door into a blast of cold air. A thick layer of snow had settled over the past few days and it masked the sounds of the city, so that the only noise before the door closed was the crunch of Jean’s boots in the snow. 

“Commissioner, would you like this in your office?”

Javert turned to eye the basket Jean had brought. It was large and likely full. He shook his head.

“Bring me a slice, with a spoonful of jam. Share the rest amongst the men, as suggested. I’m sure it is time for a short break.”

“Merci, Commissioner!” came a chorus of voices, and he nodded. It had taken several years to get here, to learn to be the leader that these men deserved, but Javert thought that he was almost there now, and it was small kindnesses like this that had helped him on his way. 

He closed the door on the chatter of the men as they got to their feet and gathered around the basket. François slipped in to put a plate on his desk, and a little later a cup of coffee, but mercifully he was left alone after that for the rest of the afternoon. It had been a hard winter and looked likely to continue for some time yet, and his paperwork was building up. Desperate people doing desperate things just to get by. Once upon a time, such paperwork would have taken no time at all. Now, things were much more complicated, decisions harder to make. He’d learned that the hard way too. 

Javert kept the fire built up high, burning against the dwindling light and the frigid cold. He shivered, despite the heat and the warmth of his coat, which he had not removed all day, but continued to scribble through his paperwork as day faded and night came to his window. It was only two days until Christmas and, as he had worked on the day the year previously, he had promised Jean that he would be at home this year. If he could only catch up on this pile of work, he might come back to a just manageable load after his days off. 

He sipped at his coffee, found it had long gone cold, and ventured out to find another. His head spun when he stood up, but that was understandable after long hours bent over the desk. All he needed was some coffee to clear his mind a little. 

François was at his desk and a few officers lingered at theirs, but most had disappeared. Javert glanced up at the clock to find it was already gone six o’clock, and most had headed home for the day. The night shift would be arriving soon, and he had not finished his work. He would have to be quick if he was to be home for dinner at eight. 

“Commissioner, would you like some more coffee?” 

François appeared in front of him, and Javert started. He had not even seen the man leave his desk, let alone heard him approach. He was more tired than he thought. It had been difficult to sleep the last few days, with his nose blocked like it was, and his throat scratching. 

“Yes, please,” Javert held out his cup, “And some more logs for the box.”

“Yes, commissioner,” François nodded, his inscrutable gaze on Javert’s face, “Are you quite well? You look pale and Monsieur Fauchelevent said –”

“What did Monsieur Fauchelevent say?”

“He said that he was concerned you were falling ill,” François said, so lacking in gall that Javert could not even be short with him, “And to make sure that you were kept warm and fed.”

“Did he now?” Javert shook his head. Trust Jean to know that he was under the weather before Javert had even acknowledged his own body’s symptoms. 

“Yes, commissioner.”

“Well, in that case, you had better fetch the coffee and those logs. Then you should go home. You’ve been here longer than even I today.”

“I will wait, commissioner,” François said, “Until you are ready to leave.”

“Very well.”

Javert would not argue. He had long given up arguing with anyone that Jean had managed to draw to his side. 

At seven thirty, Javert was happy to pass over the station house to the inspector on duty. The coffee had helped to clear his mind a little, but his head was feeling fuller by the minute and his limbs had begun to ache. He needed a good meal and a decent sleep, and he’d be better again in the morning. Between them Jean and Toussaint usually had something for most ailments, some country potion that helped to ease the symptoms and did not necessitate the visit of a doctor. That, and a comfortable night at Jean’s side would be enough. 

François met him at the door with his hat, gloves and scarf, and together they stepped out into the freezing night. The shock of the air hit the back of Javert’s throat and he began to cough; to his consternation, once he had begun, he could not stop. He felt a gentle patting on his back and when he looked up, François was at his side, as usual. 

“Should I find you a cab, commissioner? I do not think you should be out in this cold.”

Javert was about to agree to the rare indulgence when several things happened. There was a scream from somewhere to their right, a piercing shriek that rent through the still air, then the sound of a pistol and another scream, this time from a different voice. Before either of them could react, a gamin rounded the corner, a child of indiscriminate sex due to the bulkiness of its rags, running as fast as it could. The child stopped dead before them, pointed breathlessly in the direction it had come from and then was gone, before Javert could grab it and demand more information. 

François moved first, running in the direction of the screams, and Javert followed, as fast as he could. The streets around the station house were a maze of dead ends and snow packed so hard it had become treacherous ice, but he was able to track François from the sound of his feet and came upon him in an alley, crouched over a prone figure on the ground. Another person was sat nearby, curled in on themselves, rocking back and forth. 

Javert went to François’ side and found that the person on the floor was lying on snow that had been dyed red with their blood. It was a woman, perhaps no older than Cosette, though it was hard to tell from just her face, and she was so pale that Javert was sure she must already be dead. François shrugged out of his coat and placed it over the woman, and put his fingers to her neck. 

“She is alive, commissioner. Barely.”

“Go back to the station,” Javert said, “Fetch some men to carry her, and a blanket. She will die for sure if we do not get her out of this cold.”

He did not say what he was truly thinking, that the young woman would be dead anyway before François returned, but he wanted to spare the man having to watch it. François was as good as any man Javert had ever worked with, but he was also soft-hearted, and sometimes allowed that heart to rule his head. On a day when he was feeling well, Javert would have been able to bear this woman’s weight himself, but he knew he could not today, and therefore it made more sense to send François away. 

“She dead, monsieur? My girly? She dead?”

Javert started and turned to the other person in the alley, the one he had forgotten was there. It was another woman, much older, and one he realised that he recognised when he looked at her face. She was a whore he had come across often over the years, but one who had never caused him trouble, despite her burgeoning madness. She was not afraid of him and he was not bothered by her. 

“I do not know,” he said shortly, as he began to shiver, his teeth chattering, “My men will come and fetch her. What happened?”

“It was him, the bastard,” the old woman crawled towards them and took the young woman’s hand between her own, “He kept saying we owed him and I said we don’t owed him nothing, monsieur, we always paid him. But he kept saying and my girly, she tells him to go away, that he ain’t having no more money from us. And he got the gun, the one in his coat and points it at me and tells me to pay but she says no, she pushed him and he shot it at her and he runs. My poor girly. My brave girl.”

The old woman began to sob, pressing the young woman’s hand to her mouth, and Javert knew he would get nothing more from her when she was like this. Likely they had argued with their pimp, or with someone who had designs on being such a thing, and this youngster had tried to protect her elder. It was a thing that he had seen before, and it always ended like this, in the end. 

François seemed to take an age to return, although it was probably only minutes, and by the time he had arrived with three men and a blanket, Javert was shaking so violently that he needed François’ arm to get to his feet. His bad knee always ached in the cold but now it was screaming, a pain that shot up and down his entire leg, and his head swam. 

The men rolled the woman onto the blanket and hurried away. François coaxed the old woman to her feet and led her from the alley. Javert eased himself away from the wall that he had been keeping himself upright with, and by sheer force of will, managed to walk at François’ side. He did not know when the man discretely slipped his arm through his, but he was grateful for it, and leaned heavily on him. The old woman leaned on François’ other side, and they surely made an amusing sight, but Javert could not bring himself to care. 

They made it the three streets back to the station house and up the front steps. It was warm as they stepped inside, very warm, and Javert went as close to the fire as he could bear. He watched François settle the woman into a chair and wrap a blanket around her, and was about to tell him to give her a cell and a bed for the night, when a pain went through his head, his leg collapsed beneath him and he was unconscious before he hit the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

As Javert woke, no more than a minute could have passed. He was still by the fire, the old woman was still rocking in her chair, and the officers were still hovering in the hall.

“Damn,” he swore, and tried to sit up, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him, and François appeared in his line of vision. 

“A moment, commissioner,” François said, “Give yourself time to come around.”

Javert was about to argue when François seemed to read his mind and got to his feet, moving the men who were watching and providing no aid, sending them to do their gawking elsewhere. They took the old woman with them and when only François and the inspector, Denis, remained at Javert’s side, he was allowed to sit up. 

His head swam and his leg throbbed, but there did not seem to be any damage, besides to his pride. Commissioner Javert of the Paris police did not faint because of a little cold. The story would be all round the stations by morning, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

François handed him a cup of water and Javert drank greedily. It could not have helped, he realised, to have been ill and drunk only coffee all day. 

“Denis, flag down a cab, please,” Javert said.

Denis hurried outside and François, reading his mind once more, helped Javert to his feet before the inspector could return to see any more of his weakness. His arm around François’ shoulders, Javert limped out to the cab, thanked Denis and climbed in, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg. It was no surprise at all when François clambered in behind him. The sergeant was loyal, always had been even when Javert did not deserve it, and he would not abandon him now. 

It was only a short journey by cab, especially on streets that were clear, but Javert barely noticed it passing. François’ eyes were on him, and he could not escape them, but neither was he finding it easy to breathe around the lump in his throat, or the blocking of his nose.

“Commissioner, may I suggest you loosen your stock?”

François’ voice was low but Javert heard and obeyed it, his fingers fumbling with the buckle that had suddenly become the most difficult thing in the world to unfasten. He was only glad François knew him well enough to resist offering to help. There had been enough indignity for one day. 

The cab clattered to a halt and François leapt out. Javert closed his eyes and fought the fatigue that threatened to take him there and then. Perhaps he did doze for a second or two, because Jean had appeared at his side and Javert did not recall how he got there. 

“You give me no pleasure when you prove me right,” Jean said, pressing a hand to Javert’s brow. The hand was ice, and he shivered. Jean frowned.

“Had I known you were this bad when you rose this morning, I would have barred the door.”

Javert did not answer. He did not have the strength to and besides, there was no arguing when Jean had made up his mind. And he had the cheek to say that Javert was the stubborn one! Javert chuckled as Jean helped him out of the carriage, into the reassuring hold of François. François would not let him fall again.

“And what has amused you so?” Jean came to his other side, and the three of them made their way up the front steps and then they just kept going, up the stairs until Javert had to take a break halfway. 

“You’re very stubborn,” he said, “That is funny.”

“Hmm,” Jean licked his lips, “You’re delirious.”

They propelled Javert up the final few stairs and into the bedroom. He fell onto the bed and must have slept then, because Jean woke him and the room had been prepared for sickness. 

“Where’s François?” Javert croaked, “Is he-”

“He’s gone home,” Jean said, “The hour is late, you know. Gone nine.”

“Nine!” Javert sat up quickly, perilously close to the edge of the bed, “Dinner was at eight.”

“It is alright,” Jean caught Javert’s weight and gently pushed him back, “François told me everything that happened. I am only glad that the pair of you are safe. And now, my dear, you are going nowhere. If you argue, I will call for the doctor.”

The words made sense to Javert, with some time to consider them, and he nodded. He was so very tired, he’d agree to anything that meant he could keel over and sleep. He let Jean undress him and sponge the sweat from his body, then dress him in a nightshirt and help him into bed. He drank another cup of water, then another and, finally, was allowed to sleep, although Jean insisted he be propped up on the pillows to do it. It didn’t matter. Jean had barely doused the candles before Javert felt his eyes slip shut and the embrace of sleep take him. He awoke often during the night, unable to breathe through his nose, but Jean was curled at his side and he found it was not too much to bear.

**

The morning of Christmas Eve, brought with it a grey dawn and the threat of the doctor after all.

“No,” Javert shook his head at the suggestion, grinding his teeth. Someone poking and prodding was the last thing he needed, especially when all he had was a bad cold. Perhaps the flu, but probably a cold.

“You’re in pain,” Jean pointed out, sat on the edge of the bed, not yet even dressed for the day before he began his fussing, “Tell me you are not.”

As he spoke, he leaned a gentle hand on Javert’s bad knee, and Javert only just bit back a curse.

“That’s not fair.”

“I do not care much for being fair,” Jean said mildly, “You know what the doctor said about this knee.”

“He said to rest it when it pains me,” Javert retorted, “And as I am to endure this forced bedrest, surely his demands have been met?”

Jean pulled a face.

“At least let me ask him for some laudanum,” Jean said, “He does not have to come with it himself. He can send a boy, or I can go and collect it.”

Javert despised laudanum and he despised the stupor it put men in, but as he shifted on the bed and his knee throbbed, even he could see the benefit of a small dose. At least for a day or two, until the cold and the swelling had gone down. 

“Very well,” he snapped, “If I must. I do not promise to take it. Only to have it here if I need it.”

Jean only grinned and rose from his perch. He moved about the room, preparing himself for the day, and Javert watched through eyes that scratched when he blinked. How he hated to be ill, unable to bear it like he had done in his youth. It was that damn river that had done it, weakened what had once been strong lungs and a stout heart. Now he caught every winter cold, every chill, and although he could work through most of them, now and again there was one that he could not defeat through force of will. It perturbed him even more that Jean, eight years his elder, had never been ill in the whole time they had lived together. He’d never caught a single cold and the only pain he suffered was a swelling in his knuckles when the weather was bad. Not that Javert would wish anything upon him; if an old age of coughs and aches was the price Javert paid for a youth of pride and arrogance, he would gladly pay it. He’d pay any price for the company of Jean Valjean. 

The day was almost done, passed in a restless haze, by the time Javert remembered the significance of the date.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” he said, as Jean appeared in the doorway with a dinner tray, weighed down with the soup and a sharp smelling tea that surely was a concoction of Toussaint’s. 

“It is,” Jean said simply, putting the tray on the cabinet top. 

“You should be with your daughter. I will be quite alright here by myself for day or two.”

Jean did not answer, only produced from his pocket a small glass bottle with a stoppered top. He poured some into the tea and held the cup out to Javert, who took it in uncertain hands.

“It is not enough to make you sleep,” Jean said, “Only to take the edge off the pain.”

It smelled foul, whatever it was, and Javert gulped it down in one before he had to think too hard about it. 

“I mean it,” he said, once Jean had taken the cup away and replaced it with the soup, “Go to Cosette. She will be disappointed if you do not.”

He did not relish the idea of being alone in the house, feverish and in pain, but he also did not want Jean to miss out. Fantine, Cosette’s little daughter, was three now and much had been made of how this would be the first celebration she could truly enjoy. Jean had been so looking forwards to it.

“Cosette already knows we are staying here,” Jean sat on the edge of the bed and took Javert’s hand, “I am not leaving you. There will be other days. Other days to celebrate and times to be together.”

“But-”

“Enough,” Jean smiled, and Javert was relieved to see no sadness there, “Cosette understands. She sends her best wishes and wants only for you to be well again, as do I. We will celebrate together here, you and I.”

Jean’s voice was so firm, and Javert was so tired, that there seemed little reason to continue arguing. He picked up his spoon and began his soup. He was not hungry, but he could not make this anymore difficult for Jean than it already was.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite his intentions, the guilt of depriving Jean and the passing of another fevered night left Javert feeling helpless and irritable in the morning. He lay propped up on the pillows, the pain in his leg returned with a vengeance, and it was only the press of Jean’s body close to his side that stopped him from cursing aloud and throwing the empty water jug at the wall.

He hated it. He hated it.

His shortness of breath was not helped by his mood and he began to cough, hard enough that Jean was awake in an instant. He hit Javert hard between his shoulders and although the blow hurt, it was enough to shift the lump in his throat and he sat back against the pillows.

“At least you did not cough much in the night,” Jean said, brushing Javert’s loose hair behind his ear, “Or, at least, I didn’t hear you.”

“It was fine,” Javert said shortly, jerking his head away, “I am not a child. Or an invalid, despite what you would try and reduce me to.”

Jean’s face shuttered and he took his hand away. 

“I’ll fetch you some tea. And laudanum.”

He was in such a hurry that he left the room in his nightshirt and robe, and Javert realised that he had not even had the decency to wish Jean a merry Christmas, only snap at him instead.

He gazed miserably at his hands and clenched them into fists, bearing down hard on his bad knee with them, so that his vision was going black by the time he stopped. The pain was no more than he deserved.

Jean was so long in returning that Javert could almost believe he had simply opened the front door and gone to Cosette’s side dressed only in his nightshirt. When he did finally return, his step was slow on the stairs and as he backed into the room, Javert could see why. The tray was laden, with a teapot, a coffee jug, pastries, fruit, bread and cheese.

“Good morning, my dear. Merry Christmas to you.”

Jean’s voice was light but his expression was steel, daring Javert to speak out of turn again. Second chances. Jean was always giving him second chances.

“What is this?”

“A poor replacement for the breakfast we would have been served in the Gillenormand dining room, I’m sure, but quite adequate for our tastes.”

“Is that coffee?”

“It is,” Jean poured some from the jug into a cup, “And you can even have some.”

Javert reached to take it, and Jean moved away quickly.

“After your laudanum.”

Javert groaned as the measure was poured, but took it quickly, anything to be allowed the coffee that was just out of his reach.

Jean remained at his side for a long while, sharing breakfast with him, and Javert was able to reassure himself that he was not entirely beyond Jean’s forgiveness, even if he had to work for it. Once the medicine had done its work, it was not such a bad thing to eat in bed with Jean. It was decadent, of course, and wholly unnecessary on Jean’s part, but there were surely worse ways to begin Christmas Day. Or any day, for that matter. 

“I am going to mass,” Jean announced at the end of the meal, “You will be quite well without me for an hour or two, I am sure.”

It was not a question and so Javert did not need to answer. He settled back against his pillows and watched Jean wash and dress himself, then tidy the breakfast things away. There was an edge to the silence between them; Jean may forgive him in time, as he always would, but he would also not allow Javert to forget that there had been something he needed to forgive at all. The fire at the heart of Jean Valjean had never been extinguished; not by years of degradation; not by Madeleine or Fauchelevent who had tried to choke it out of him, or by Javert at his heels. That fire in his breast had kept him alive and if it meant that he would not so easily forget an indiscretion, then so be it. Javert would much rather Jean was that man than one who would roll over and accept his lot.

“At least let me go downstairs,” Javert said, “To sit by the fire. I think I can manage the stairs, with your help.”

“If it pleases you.”

Jean brought his robe and helped him into it, his hands gentle, and when he allowed Javert to lean his weight on his shoulders, Jean’s hand was steady at his waist. They shuffled across the room and out to the stairs, and Javert grit his teeth. He needed a change of scenery, anything to put himself in a better mood for when Jean returned. This was the best he could think of. 

When Javert was settled in his chair in the library, with his leg propped up on a stool and yesterday’s newspaper on his lap, Jean nodded.

“Do not do anything dangerous or foolish.”

Javert fought his first urge, the one to tell Jean once again that he was not a child. It was his first urge that had got them into this strange half-argument as it was. Instead, he shook his head.

“I will not.”

He could not for a while do anything that Jean would disapprove of, for the exertion of moving was enough to put Javert into a doze almost as soon as the front door closed. He was awoken some time later by a knock. Who on earth would be knocking at this time on Christmas Day? He ignored it, until it came again, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Jean was taken ill, or something had happened to Cosette. He must answer it.

Slowly, he got to his feet and found that the laudanum was still enough that he could hobble to the door. It hurt, but he would not allow it to stop him, not if something had happened. He had walked through worse pain for lesser things. 

He fumbled with the keys and eventually opened the door to find François standing on the other side. He was not dressed in his uniform; rather he wore a simple but well-cut suit, and as Javert took him in, he saw that a small boy was hiding behind François’ legs, peering up at Javert with wide eyes.

“Commissioner, forgive me! You are alone?”

“It is alright,” Javert said, “Please, come in. It is cold out here.”

François had never been to visit the house as a guest, even when Jean had attempted to invite him before but he stepped inside willingly, the child clinging to his trouser leg. Javert closed the door and François offered him his arm.

“Allow me, commissioner. Where were you sitting?”

Javert took his arm gratefully and they went into the library. François steered him into his chair and he sat down heavily. There was a moment of awkward silence as they both realised that none of the normal niceties had been observed at the door or in the hall, and then François sat down with a shrug. The boy came to his side, still gazing at Javert.

“Commissioner, I only wanted to come and ask Monsieur Fauchelevent how you fared. Had I known I would come inside, I would have not brought Henri with me. I am sorry.”

“There is no need to apologise. Your son?”

“My oldest,” François rested a hand on the child’s head, “Six years old these three days passed. Say hello to the commissioner, Henri.”

“Bonjour, monsieur,” Henri whispered, then started when Javert held out his hand. He glanced anxiously at his father, who nodded, then darted forwards and shook Javert’s hand. 

“Bonjour, Henri. I am pleased to meet you.”

The boy blushed but a small smile, so like his father’s, made his mouth twitch. He returned to François’ side and looked speculatively around the room. 

“You will have to forgive him,” François said, “He has heard many stories of you, commissioner. He is likely a little awed to be in your presence.”

Javert could only imagine the rubbish that François had filled his son’s head with; the man was much too inclined to hero worship and he had, despite Javert’s best efforts, decided that the focus of his foolish adoration would be his commissioner. It had irked, for a long while. Javert had not been used to working so closely with someone, and he had often been short and temperamental. It had not, in the end, made any difference to François. 

“How are you, monsieur?” 

As he spoke, François took hold of the boy and pulled him onto his lap, an arm curled around him. The child relaxed and fixed his green eyes, the mirror of his father’s, on Javert’s face.

“In pain with this da- with my knee,” Javert checked his language in the presence of small ears, “And Monsieur Fauchelevent insists I have an influenza, although I do not believe it myself. A cold, perhaps, at most.”

François nodded sympathetically. He was well acquainted with Javert’s bad knee, better than anyone except Jean. It had, after all, been the cause of more than one argument over the years and more than one battle over the necessity of a cab at the end of the day. François rarely won these, but he was often later proved right and, it struck Javert suddenly, he also never let it stop him fighting the next time either. 

“And where is Monsieur Fauchelevent?”

“Mass.”

He did not mean to be short, but a chill descended on the room and he knew that he must be the cause of it. He glanced at the fire, so he did not have to look at his guests. It was burning a little low, but before he could speak, Henri slipped off his father’s lap and went to the fireplace. In that methodical way that children had, he moved the grate and then picked up a log, placing it carefully on the fire before he moved the grate back into place. He returned to François and climbed back up to his seat. 

“Thank you, Henri,” Javert said.

“He is very independent, and helpful to his mother,” François stroked the boy’s hair, “She – my wife is often ill. She does her best to stay on her feet and she does a wonderful job. Sometimes though – well, Henri, you help Mama a lot, do you not?”

“Yes,” Henri nodded, “When Mama is poorly I help to look after Pierre. And the baby, but the baby smells bad. I don’t like changing him. And I help in the kitchen. Mama lets me stir the pot.”

“Your wife?” Javert said, “You have never mentioned this before.”

“Monsieur, you have never asked,” François smiled, “Besides, it is not for me to burden you with such things. We are quite able to get along. She is quite able. A marvel. Never a cross word for anyone, despite her pain. The gentlest person you’d ever meet.”

There was a beat of silence, in which Javert could think of nothing to say, and then François spoke again.

“I hope you do not think me impertinent, but could I be allowed to find your kitchen and make you a cup of tea?”

“If you wish. Make one for yourself too. And find the boy something to eat. Whatever he wishes for, he may have.”

“Thank you.”

François left the room in a hurry, with Henri at his heels, and Javert was left to his own thoughts. They were not comfortable ones. He had no idea that François had such a troubled private life and that was because, indeed, he had never asked. He did not even know the man had children, let alone three. He was even certain that Jean must also have no idea, for surely he would have told Javert if he did. He wondered as to the nature of the woman’s illness. It must be a worry, if it happened so often. And did Henri go to school, or was he forced to stay at home to help his mother? 

Javert was well into his brooding when father and son returned from the kitchen. François bore a carefully loaded tray and Henri clutched what Javert recognised as one of Toussaint’s pastries in his hand. 

“When will monsieur return?” François asked, and Javert noticed that there were four cups on the tray, not three. 

“I do not know. I was – I was angry with him this morning, and spoke harshly. He did not deserve it.”

“I am sure he will be back soon. It is Christmas day, after all.”

“Indeed. Why are you not at home?”

“We went to the early mass,” François poured a cup and handed it to Javert, “Henri and I. It is too cold for Adelaide and the little ones to venture out. We will return home soon.”

“Is she well?”

“Not entirely. Winter is hard for her, much harder than summer. But she spends her time teaching Henri to read and write, and sewing, when she feels up to it. It brings in a little extra.”

“She sounds a remarkable woman.”

“She is,” François directed Henri to sit by the fire and eat his pastry, “I am very lucky.”

They talked a little longer, about police business, safer territory for them both, and soon François was standing to leave. Henri had been quiet, listening to them talk, but when he got to his feet, he came to Javert’s side and held out a solemn hand. 

“Thank you, monsieur, for my cake.”

“You’re welcome. Run to the kitchen and take another. And one for Pierre, if you can carry it.”

Henri’s eyes widened and he was off, before Javert could change his mind, no doubt. François smiled.

“Do not get up, commissioner. It was very pleasant to sit awhile. Thank you.”

François shook his hand and then Javert listened as they dressed in the hall, before calling a final goodbye and closing the door behind them. He did not have much time to brood alone, for in the next minute, the door opened and Jean called out.

“Javert? Are you in the library still?”

“I am!”

A moment later, Jean appeared at his side. He looked happier than he had when he left. The visit to church had done him good, as it so often did. 

“Well now. How are you feeling? Your visitors did not tax you?”

“You saw them?”

“Outside, yes. I did not know François had any children. You never told me.”

“I did not know.” 

Javert looked down at his hands, and waited for Jean to sit beside him on the couch. It was warm, thanks to Henri’s careful efforts with the fire. Jean gave him some space. Javert did not want space and he lifted an arm to put it around Jean’s shoulders, pulling him closer. Jean relaxed into him, as though he were a puppet and all of his strings had been cut.

“I am sorry,” Javert said, “For speaking roughly this morning. You did not deserve it.”

“It is alright. You are in pain.”

“That is no excuse,” Javert said, thinking of François and Adelaide, “It is no excuse and I will try not to do it again.”

They sat a while in silence, pressed against one another. 

“Merry Christmas,” Javert said into the silence, feeling a little foolish, but forcing himself to speak his mind, for it was what Jean deserved, “It is a gift, to sit here with you and I should never forget it.”

The kiss he was given in return, though chaste, was quite enough to reassure him that he had, for once, said the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope now that you've read the whole thing, my title (which is a line from a well-known carol) makes some kind of sense. Sometimes I spend waaaayyyy too long thinking about these things, although it does keep me amused :D

**Author's Note:**

> I asked Esteven what she would like for Christmas, and she asked for some good old hurt/comfort with snarky Javert. I haven't really written sickfic before, so this has been a good challenge.
> 
> Merry Christmas, Esteven, and thanks for all your help this year! We love you :) :)


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